


Guiding Hand

by alexeimikhail, ZombieDove (FreudianSlaps)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Aid, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hand Jobs, Injury, It is mind control so, M/M, Massage, Mind Control, Partial Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sharing a Bed, but very light whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexeimikhail/pseuds/alexeimikhail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreudianSlaps/pseuds/ZombieDove
Summary: Jaskier had neither a weak will nor a shallow mind, but Geralt found him impressionable. Under axii, he took the slightest suggestion easily, almost as if his subconscious was eager to latch onto Geralt’s volition.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 278





	1. A Line Crossed

Geralt slipped back into the dusty tavern where he and Jaskier had lodged the night before. It was small, dirty, and only had one bed to spare for the two of them, but it had served them well enough. Candlelight casts a warm flickering glow over the worn wood of the bartop, the smattering of tables and stools, and the faces of the innkeeper and his patrons. Jaskier was among them, reclining at a corner table. Graceful hands cradled his lute loosely in his lap while he engaged a smiling serving girl in eager conversation. A familiar emptiness expanded in Geralt’s chest as self-directed disgust wormed its way into his gut. As he was wont, he denied himself the privilege of acknowledging his own jealousy.

Ignoring the pair, his eyes fixed on the stairwell that led up to their humble rented room. He took care to step lightly, but the poorly maintained floor protested as he passed over it.

The innkeeper shifted in Geralt’s periphery and a kindly smile spread across his face as his voice boomed, “Ho, Witcher! Looks like our Nekker problem’s been handled, has it?” 

His jaw tightened in frustration as he glanced toward the balding innkeep, grunting in affirmation while continuing on his way to the staircase. 

Jaskier's lute let out a soft, resonant tone that kissed Geralt's ear as it was jostled, and he called after him. Appearing at his shoulder, he quickly became a tangle of expressive hand movements as he started his reproach, “You snuck out while I was sleeping! How am I supposed to witness your heroic deeds and get any writing done when you slip away in the middle of the night to take care of things on your own?”

“Nekkers.”

“Yes, well, what if it wasn’t just nekkers? Aldermen do love to understate danger, and I don’t want to miss out on anything good,” he huffed theatrically, “I’ve at least had some decent company while you were gone.”

Geralt’s heart squeezed, the barmaid’s sweet giggles at the back of his mind. At the threshold to their rented room, he stopped and turned. He had to extend a hand to keep the bard from crashing into his chest.

“Jaskier,” his voice scraped at the back of his throat, “Order me a bath.”

“Of course, dear. Anything else?” Jaskier teased before pushing past him to carefully set his lute on the room’s sole table. He didn’t wait for an answer, turned and bounded back down the stairs. 

Geralt sighed once Jaskier was out of earshot. Dispatching the nekker nest had been a welcome distraction. He wiped his swords clean, then set them up in a vacant corner to sharpen later. After pulling his gloves off, he began to loosen the findings of his armour. Though he is more than capable of working them himself, a regretful part of him had eagerly, guiltily anticipated Jaskier’s help. He had been playing squire for Geralt since shortly after they’d begun traveling together. He had grown shamefully accustomed to the attention. 

He scowled, frustrated with himself for relishing the companionship and with the gore-crusted lacing at his side for refusing to yield. He didn’t struggle for long before light footfalls echoed up the stairs, and the door swung open to reveal Jaskier’s beaming countenance. 

“One steaming bath, coming right up!” Jaskier announced as he approached. He noticed Geralt’s minor difficulty immediately and affectionately brushed his hands away. Geralt made a show of huffing in frustration, but shifted his attention to the findings of his vambraces as Jaskier undid the knot at his side with only minor retching, “How do you manage to get so thoroughly covered in muck on nearly every hunt? Really, sometimes I wonder if you witchers don’t roll around in your kills like dogs…So how many were there? An even dozen? A score?”

“Six,” Geralt responded with a grunt. With Jaskier’s help, he was soon down to his undershirt. The bard held his dirty armor at arm’s length as he carried it to the same corner as his swords.

“No wonder you made it back before dark. I could probably take on six nekkers,” Jaskier teased, before going towards their packs and digging through the bags, “Still, it would have been nice to see you take them down… Ah, here we are. Easy hunt or no, I’m sure your muscles are sore… you were quite tense just now.”

Jaskier fished out a clean set of clothes for Geralt, and pushed them into his arms, “Now come on, before the water gets cold.”

The small bath room was what could be expected of a small town. There was a bath and it was in a room. Jaskier followed Geralt into the cramped space and undid the few clasps of his doublet that he had bothered to fasten and hung it on a peg near the door. Geralt paid him little mind as he finished undressing and then sank into the near scalding water. He leaned back and braced his arms against the bath’s edge as he tilted his head back and let his eyes slip closed. Then there was a soft splash as a handful of bath salts hit the water’s surface. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t open his eyes as he heard a footstool scrape across the floor.

“How tall is a nekker, Geralt?” Jaskier asked conversationally as he patted either of his shoulders to let him know where he was, seated just behind his head. Geralt grumbled at first, not wanting to dignify the question, but when Jaskier hummed inquisitively he decided it would just be easier to answer him.

“Two, maybe three feet.”

“So how, pray tell, do you get nekker pieces stuck in your hair?” Jaskier asked as he undid Geralt’s hair tie and ran his fingers gently through his tangled strands, picking out the occasional leaf or gore chunk as he went, “Lean forward for me?”

“They jump,” Geralt replied with a tinge of frustration, but he moved to obey. Jaskier poured water over his head and down his back, then tapped his shoulders in a signal to recline once more. Lute-string calloused fingers then combed through his wet hair, spreading suds from the blandly scented soap the tavern provided. Short fingernails scratched lightly over his scalp, and Jaskier hummed to himself as he worked. Geralt knew when to turn his head by the shift of Jaskier’s hands, and it only took a soft prompting or a pointed tap to his shoulders to get him to shift positions.

He should never have gotten so accustomed to this. It had gotten to the point that he looked forward to the filth, only because he knew just how it would come off of him. It wasn’t that he denied himself kind touches. He paid for them honestly from whores or bath attendants when able. Having them freely given with no expectation of retribution had been a rare thing before Jaskier. 

His train of thought was cut off as the scent of spearmint and clove leaf wafted from Jaskier’s hands. It was one of the bard’s many indulgences: a scented hair oil that he had no hesitation sharing. It was one component of the familiar, multilayered scent that Geralt could only define as  _ Jaskier _ .

“Leave it,” he threatened as he heard slicked hands sliding together. It was always a step too far. His breath would be infiltrated with it for days. Even when they traveled apart, it would linger and remind him of what he lacked.

“It’s already on my hands,” Jaskier pointed out, and Geralt could hear the sheepish grin on his voice, “Anyway, it’s good for your hair.”

It had the audacity to make his skin tingle as it was worked over his scalp and run through the ends of his hair. He should have reached up and grabbed his delicate wrist the second the bottle was opened. He should have stopped him from even following him into the bath in the first place.

He should have done a lot of things in regard to Jaskier, but he was weak. He had let the lingering, tender touch move from a luxury to an expectation. He missed it when he traveled alone. 

“I think I will do a short set tonight,” Jaskier mused absently as he patted Geralt’s shoulders before rising up from his stool, “I believe I’ve got a more interesting party to entertain tonight, and I don’t want to keep her waiting… Are you going to be needing salve tonight? I mean it really was only nekkers...” Though his voice took on a hint of complaint, they both knew he didn’t mind. 

“I can manage,” Geralt grumbled, getting back to the business of proper bathing now that Jaskier was finished with his hair. There was no disappointment in his tone. There was no frustration. He presented himself as neutral to this turn of events.

“Right. Well, I’m going to go get set up and start performing soon, but I’ll give you enough time to finish up in here and then flee up the stairs,” Jaskier paused at the door as he slid his arms back into his doublet, then tossed Geralt a smile before heading out.

“I do not flee,” Geralt told no one as he sat in the cooling water for a few more minutes, passed soap over his body and then rinsed himself clean. The tension that had melted from him had returned, twisting into knots along his neck and shoulders.

He pushed himself out of the water, dried off and redressed. He kept to the edge of the tavern until he came back to the narrow staircase, and true to his word, Jaskier had yet to start playing. As Geralt went through their things, putting his own away and packing them preemptively, he can hear Jaskier tuning his lute downstairs. A few test chords were played, and then he recognized the opening to one of Jaskier’s crowd pleasers. The reception was warm enough from the small crowd, which grew as more patrons came in for the night. Eventually he could hear fists and feet hitting tables and floorboards in time with a bawdy tune, and the laughter that swelled upon its conclusion. 

It was good for Jaskier to get some appreciation. A rowdy audience eager for song and story was much more appropriate for the bard. He could seek their approval and find his efforts fruitful. The most danger he should come in should be from an unappreciative patron or a cuckolded spouse. Geralt knew Jaskier had been given offers to play resident at royal courts. It was the sort of position and life he was well suited for.

He hated that he was relieved to hear each time that he had turned them down.

With the last of his bags packed, he decided his last task for the night would be to check up on Roach. While the stable hand seemed competent enough, he liked to personally see that she was fed and watered properly. The complicating factor was that he would have to cross the main hall to make it to the tavern’s exit. As he descended the stairs, he could see that any attention to be had was claimed by the bard. Confident that little could change that, he moved around the edge of the building, the few patrons that noticed him giving him a wide enough berth. He was nearly to the door when the song ended, and Jaskier called out to the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve got a rare chance tonight! The White Wolf, friend of humanity, monster slayer and humble hero himself is among us tonight! Geralt of Rivia, everyone!” There was a burst of energy among the crowd, some confused but mostly positive, and Geralt realized with dawning distaste that the ruddy faces of the tavern’s drunks were slowly turning in his direction, “Barkeep, get this man a drink! He killed nearly two dozen nekkers just this afternoon, all to keep you and your kin safe!  _ When a humble bard-” _

Geralt was liable to kill him. As the gratingly familiar chords were struck, Geralt found he could not escape. While the crowd wasn’t immediately embracing him with claps on the back and warm handshakes, they knew the songs. Grins were flashed in his direction, a chair was pulled out at an empty back table, and a mug of ale was pushed into his hands.

“...Fuck.”’

No one seemed to notice his resistance as he was ushered to the empty chair. He caught Jaskier’s eye as he sat down and gave him a withering glare to which the bard only grinned and continued to belt out the popular tune. He would sit for this one song, to humor the crowd and the minstrel, but then he was tending to Roach. He knew these songs. He heard them incessantly on the road as Jaskier practiced and composed as he walked alongside him. There was nothing here for him.

Except the ale. It was slightly watered down, as it would be at any tavern, but it was palatable enough, and it kept coming. He refused anything that didn’t come straight from the barkeep, but as Jaskier worked through his repertoire of songs that exalted him, the other patrons were more than willing to buy him an occasional drink. By the time Jaskier was bowing out after his second encore, Geralt felt warm and comfortably buzzed. The few men who had tried to go drink for drink with him were either passed out or vomiting outside. He  _ had  _ warned them, so he felt no lingering guilt.

Jaskier bowed and waved before he hopped down from the table he had been standing on. His smile shined as he approached Geralt’s table. His blue eyes flashed with satisfaction, and though Geralt could hear his heart racing and could see the flush of exertion high on his cheeks, both only made him look more alive.

“Sorry for roping you in like that… I honestly didn’t expect you to come down. Or to sit. Or to stay,” Jaskier admitted as he reached for what was left of Geralt’s ale. Geralt watched as his lips briefly pressed against the edge of the mug before he took a quick swallow.

“You made enough coin to buy your own ale, bard,” Geralt pointed out, though fondness had snuck into his tone.

“Yes, well, I wanted  _ yours _ . That’s strong stuff they’ve been serving you. Wow,” Jaskier said as he set the mug down, his eyes turning away from Geralt and his drink to focus across the tavern. His lips curved upwards in an easy smile at what or whoever he was looking at, and this caught Geralt’s interest.

“We’re leaving at first light tomorrow,” Geralt pointed out as his eyes followed the line of Jaskier’s gaze, “You should pick up your coins and go to bed. I won’t suffer you complaining about a lack of sleep.”

At the other side of the tavern, the barmaid from earlier was smiling and playing with her hair. Demurely she looked away from Jaskier’s direct gaze, but soon enough she was meeting his eyes once more. 

The pleasant warmth that had settled in Geralt’s belly turned sour. He inhaled slowly as both of his hands curled around his drink.

“About that…” Jaskier said with a roguish smile, “I wouldn’t wait up for me tonight. I might be making other sleeping arrangements. While you make an excellent literal bed warmer and are as courteous a sleeping companion as any, I feel that I should avail myself of more… amicable company.”

“Jaskier…”

“First light, yes, I’m aware. I’ll be ready, Geralt, I’m not going far,” Jaskier insisted, reaching for Geralt’s mug once more. Geralt pulled it just out of his grasp. To this, Jaskier gave an exaggerated pout, before his face broke out into another sunshine grin, “Be that way, then. That was an audience tonight, though, wasn’t it? Obviously not the most refined tastes and they weren’t entirely familiar with my verses, but they were more than enthusiastic…”

Geralt wasn’t listening, not closely. He let the smooth cadence of Jaskier’s voice wash over him as he realized the sinking in his gut was disappointment. There would be no slow, gentle breathing beside him, tonight. There would be no warmth at his back. There would be no calm, steady heartbeat he could listen to as he drifted off.

He was distracted from his thoughts when he felt Jaskier’s knee bump his own, “Geralt? I asked if you would take my lute upstairs-”

The hand motion was muscle memory. To the untrained eye, it merely looked like he was waving away whatever Jaskier was saying, and there were no trained eyes in the tavern that night.

“Go upstairs and go to bed. Forget the barmaid.”

For a tense moment there is silence, as Jaskier’s lips stay parted from his last word. He blinks back to himself and shakes his head slightly, “Melitele, it’s gotten late. How long did those drunkards have me play for?”

Geralt shrugged with a non-committal hum, and dared glance back towards the barmaid. Jaskier didn’t look her way again.

“I’m turning in,” Jaskier announced, standing up and stretching his arms above himself, “and  _ I’m _ sleeping by the wall tonight.”

Geralt listened to Jaskier make his way to the staircase as he finished what was left of his drink. He passed his lips around the rim of his mug, finding no lingering warmth or taste other than the bitter notes of the ale.

Jaskier had neither a weak will nor a shallow mind, but Geralt found him impressionable. Under axii, he took the slightest suggestion easily, almost as if his subconscious was eager to latch onto Geralt’s volition. Humans regularly latched onto his commands under the sign. Those who were resistant were few and far between. Though he never cast it thoughtlessly, he considered every use justified, thus he wasted little time on introspection. 

This had no justification.

He could argue that this was for Jaskier’s own good. The barmaid could be betrothed, the last thing the bard needed was a bastard, and the extra sleep would serve him well. He would always know better than that. The selfish relief that had flooded him as the sign took hold was damning. It wasn’t a lie when he told himself that he wanted to be rid of Jaskier, that it would be safer for him if they traveled apart, and that he wanted the bard to have a normal, fulfilling, human life devoid of witchers and the danger they chased. Wanting differently was indefensible.

Why, then, did he let himself bask in the glow of his company?

* * *

It had started innocently enough. Jaskier seemed to have all the self-preservation instinct of an over-eager moth around a freshly lit candle. It was simply the most reliable way to keep him out of trouble. 

They hadn’t been traveling together for long, barely more than a week, when Geralt found a contract that offered a decent bounty.

“This isn’t a nest of drowners, bard, it’s a kikimora.” 

“All the more reason I should be there to witness your inevitable golden triumph! What better battle would there be for me to base my next ballad?” Jaskier had protested as he hovered over Geralt while he made his preparations, “I’ll keep my distance. You won’t even realize I’m there. I will be a silent observer in the distant tree line.”

“No,” Geralt had said firmly before he knocked back a foul tasting deconcoction. It was rare these days for villages to overestimate the threats they sent him to face, so he was taking no chances, “Stay at camp. Watch Roach.”

“Roach is perfectly capable of minding herself. How many chances will I have to see you do your witchering on such a formidable beast?”

“If you continue to pester me, few,” Geralt had finally turned to level his glare at his traveling companion, only to be met with pleading, eager blue eyes. With a soft huff he rolled his own and turned away. He simply did not have time for this argument. As Jaskier opened his mouth to make another entreaty, Geralt did as he would have with any other troublesome human. His hand made the motions without thought, and he repeated himself, “Stay at camp. Watch Roach.”

Jaskier seemed to pause for a moment. His lips parted just slightly and his eyes glazed over. It was brief enough not to cause concern, and when he started speaking again he looked like nothing was amiss, “Really, someone should be here to watch our packs and keep the fire lit. It will give me time to work on my verses, though there is only so much revision true poetry requires. That and, dear as she is, Roach would make a fine prize for a horse thief.”

Satisfied that this would keep the bard out of danger, Geralt had left him at camp to get on with his hunt. It was a difficult, grueling battle, but he had prepared well and luck had been on his side.

Upon his return, Jaskier had not noticed anything amiss, and Geralt saw no reason to broach the subject. He had used axii countless times on humans, often just to spare himself the coin of a bribe or the hassle of an altercation. 

“Ah! Geralt. You were gone long enough I had started to worry that I would need to start composing a dirge,” Jaskier had exclaimed upon his return. His face genuinely brightened as Geralt slunk back into the clearing carrying the monster’s head in a sack over his shoulder. He continued to look expectantly over Geralt as he dropped his trophy beside Roach and began to peel himself of his armor. Covered in swamp mud and kikimora viscera, it was more difficult than usual to work the latches.

Jaskier’s face was clearly screwed in disgust, but he still set aside his notebook and stood, “Those buckles look fiddly...Would you like some help with that?”

“Leave it,” Geralt had replied, but this didn’t seem to matter to the bard. Jaskier approached anyway. After shooing Geralt’s hands away with his own and a few deft touches, he worked out the mechanisms and knots holding his armor in place. After each latch had been popped and each knot undone, Geralt’s armor was loose on his chest. Jaskier hummed in satisfaction, regarded his hands with disgust, then stepped away to wipe them off on a nearby tree.

Jaskier was just another human. It was for his own good. It was easier than arguing with him. It was just an innocent convenience. It was like casting igni to light a candle.

“Now, in reward for my invaluable stewardship, I want to hear all of the exciting details of your battle with the…ah...”

“Kikimora,” Geralt supplied, despite himself.

“Kikimora! Right! That will be a difficult word to rhyme to, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

* * *

The tavern’s main room had nearly emptied save for innkeep and his barmaid who tended to their closing rituals. He avoided making eye contact with either as he made his way back towards the stairs and up to the small room they shared. Jaskier’s clothing was neatly folded on the room’s small, wobbly table, on which he had left a candle burning for Geralt. The bard himself was already lying under the bed’s threadbare quilt with his back to the door. He barely stirred when Geralt shut and locked the door behind himself. When the straw mattress sank with Geralt’s weight, he only murmured something unintelligible and buried his face into the bed’s only pillow.

With a soft snap, the lone candle went out, plunging the room into a mild darkness. Geralt pulled his boots off and then settled onto the bed facing the door. Even through the quilt he could feel Jaskier’s warmth behind him. Slowly, he rolled onto his back and turned his gaze up to the cracked, dusty ceiling. His shoulder brushed against Jaskier’s back briefly, and he shifted in his sleep but didn’t retreat from the contact. Geralt turned his face towards him and let his gaze linger on the pale skin of his nape, just above the collar of his chemise. He smelled like clean sweat and ale, like rosemary and orange, and like his damned hair oil. 

It would be easy to lean in close, to breathe deeply but quietly just above his pulse.

He does not. He turns his head back to the cobwebbed ceiling and closes his eyes. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is our first collaboration, and boy we've had a blast making it. After finding a rather dark kink meme prompt, we were tempted to turn on a night light and add a heaping spoonful of drama instead. 
> 
> We're both highly food and feedback motivated, so if you're interested in seeing more, toss us a comment! The work is tagged explicit for future chapters, but other relevant tags will be added as we go along.   
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Further Past

Geralt hadn’t cast Axii since the tavern. Partly, this was out of a lack of need.There had been no bribes to avoid, no information to pull out of unwilling mouths, and he just happened not to include the sign in his latest battle tactics. The contracts that had followed were relatively simple ones. It was simple enough to protect the bard from a juvenile common griffin, and the noonwraith he had faced had had eyes only for him after he had burned it’s remains. Thus Geralt had tolerated an audience of one on either hunt. 

This most recent notice was different. It was another small town with another forgettable name filled with the same kind of desperate, scared people. Hunger had driven them to hunt into a dark, wild part of the forest. They had lost nearly a third of their able bodied hunters within two weeks’ time. The remains had all been similarly mangled: ensnared in tree roots or torn to pieces by wild beasts. It didn’t take more than the lone witness’s statement for Geralt to know what he was likely up against.

They stopped to set up camp outside of the village’s limits, a safe distance from where the bodies had last been found. There was, for better or worse, no inn to be had in the settlement. Geralt set up a fire pit and left their camping supplies into a heap in the clearing they had chosen. It was still mid morning, and Geralt wanted to be done with this hunt before nightfall. The monster’s likely territory was only a short ride deeper into the woods, and by now he could trust Jaskier to set up a decent enough camp.

“Geralt,” Jaskier had called to him after he had come back into the clearing with an armful of kindling and scavenged firewood. He dropped it beside the fire pit and dusted his arms and hands off with a characteristic twitch of his nose before looking to the witcher with open, earnest curiosity.

This was not some kittenish griffin chick, nor a single minded spirit. If Geralt was correct, and he so rarely wasn’t, the beast that stalked the forest was something ancient and unpredictable. It was going to be difficult for him to keep himself safe, let alone a civilian complication. There was no way he could let Jaskier tag along this time. Geralt didn’t acknowledge the bard for a moment, seemingly focused on the buckles on Roach’s saddlebags. He ran inventory of his potions, then fished out his relict oil to apply to his sword. To his credit, Jaskier was patient today, waiting expectantly, but quietly, for Geralt to recognize him.

“You’re not coming,” he said in a final tone. He anticipated push back or at least a small, whining protest, so he didn’t bother to turn around as he sparingly oiled his silver blade. When he had finished his task and none had come, he turned to glance towards Jaskier curiously. The slight, knowing smile on the bard’s face was disconcerting, and Geralt felt himself clench his fist. Even as he only recalled the simple motions to cast the sign, he felt his stomach sour. It was so easy to steal the focus from those blue eyes. He had done it before countless hunts in the past. He would give a suggestion to stay, a command to tend the fire or an order to set snares while he went off to finish his hunt. It had always been practical, excusable.

Until that night at the tavern. 

“I know,” Jaskier said with that same half smile, “I was going to ask if there was anything else I could do at camp while you were off witchering. I’m fully capable of entertaining myself, of course, but I’m sure you have some tedious chore in mind to keep me occupied while you chase this forest spirit… I would offer to braid Roach’s mane, but you’re taking her with you, aren’t you?”

Geralt stares at Jaskier for a moment, his brows furrowed in barely suppressed confusion. With a slow, careful nod he turns back to his alchemical supplies, suddenly needing to take inventory of his potions once more. They were all still present and accounted for.

“You know what needs to be done,” he says after a third count, before he buckles the bag and moves to mount Roach once more, “Just. Watch for wolves. Don’t leave the fire after dark. You know all of this.”

Jaskier nodded at that, and his face broke into a grin, “Careful, Geralt, someone might think you trust me if you keep talking like that.”

Geralt waited for something more. A retraction, an argument, some wheedling or at the very least a bit of whining was expected. When nothing of the sort came, he turned his frown back towards the bard as his brow furrowed with suspicion. 

With no further protest or pleading, there was nothing to stop Geralt from riding to his hunt.

* * *

With a final, pained roar, the spirit fell into a smouldering heap on the forest floor. The crows that had converged on the battle scattered, and the unnatural darkness that had settled in the woods ebbed away. Geralt sheathed his sword with practiced ease, then reached down to rest his hand against his own upper thigh, where the Leshen had landed it’s blow. Fresh blood painted his glove, and he could feel even more seeping into his trousers and smearing over his leg. He could feel the wound throb deep into the meat of his thigh. 

It had been a final pair of stupid mistakes that Geralt berated himself for. He had mistimed the creature’s reformation, casting igni a second too soon. He had expected the beast to stagger from the flames, but instead it had slashed across his body, catching his leg as he lept back. An unexpected blow from its roots had flung him against the trunk of a nearby tree, and he must have landed harder than he thought. He had been distracted and unfocused during the fight, and his sloppiness showed in his injuries.

With profanity on his tongue, he dragged himself to a nearby tree, and leaned heavily on it to take the weight off his wounded leg. As he attempted to take a deep breath to steady himself, a sharp pain in his side stopped him. Geralt gently probed his side, and found where one of his ribs must have cracked. The sharp, crunching pain on palpation was enough to make him hiss another swear. The last Swallow he had taken was ebbing away, leaving these wounds unhealed and this pain undulled. He couldn’t take another draught so soon, not with his toxicity as high as it was. Even with the leshen defeated, these woods weren’t a safe place to tend to his injuries.

Summoning Roach with a whistle, he quickly stripped the relict’s body of anything useful, ignoring the throbbing pain as his leg stretched and breathing shallowly to avoid straining his ribs. By the time his mare made it to him he had finished harvesting the beast. With a reluctant hum he stared at the saddle, knowing there was no scenario in which he could walk back to their camp.

Roach is patient with him as he hefts himself into her saddle, swinging his bad leg over her back. His chest protests the twisting motion and for a minute he just sits still, waiting for the dizzying pain to recede.

Roach had a steady gait under even the worst circumstances, but anything more than a gentle trot jostled him and summoned fresh, lightning pain. The five minute ride was going to take nearly twenty. Gritting his teeth, he suffered through her pace as he took the poorly marked trail back towards camp. 

In the distance, he could see the small fire Jaskier had maintained, and he could smell the wood smoke and stewing meat in the distance. Once out of the wild deep of the forest, he could just make out the last splash of sunset above. Tracking the relict’s totems and luring it into suitable battle ground had taken the greater part of the day, and the battle had been no short feat either. As he came to the camp, he slowed Roach to a stop. His breath was imperceptibly heavy, and sweat stuck his hair to his brow.

What Geralt could see of the camp was set up as usual. The two bed rolls on either side of the small but adequate fire, something bubbling in the small cauldron suspended over the flames, and their non-essential supplies set out on the ground within reach. 

Jaskier had been sitting on his bedroll and idly strumming his lute, and his brightening smile quickly died as he came to realize something was wrong. Putting his instrument aside, he stood quickly and crossed the clearing to stand beside the horse and her rider, “Geralt?”

With a grunt, the witcher shifted in his saddle, grateful that it was his right thigh that was injured and not immediately visible. Getting onto Roach had been painful enough, dismounting her was going to be just as unpleasant.

“You’re hurt, aren’t you.” Jaskier says more than asks, his frown set and his brows drawn. When Geralt neither responds nor moves to dismount, Jaskier sighs, “Here, I can help you d-”

“I don’t need your help,” Geralt counters, with more venom in his voice than he means. Jaskier looks more annoyed than affronted, one brow rising up in a quirk. Geralt takes a slow, careful breath, then looks off to the side.

“Don’t you lash out at me,” Jaskier chided with more gentleness in his tone than Geralt deserved. He reached up, offering Geralt his arm and shoulder. As he brought his leg over Roach’s back, the strain on his chest made him grunt with the pain, and he begrudgingly allowed the bard to take some of his weight as he came down. Jaskier refused to let Geralt hobble to his bedroll on his own, and together they took the few steps across the small clearing.

“Your face is still… all… well. Creepy. With the black,” Jaskier said as he helped ease the witcher down near the fire. When he hears him grunt again, he glances down to his leg, and the next sharp intake of breath is his own, “That doesn’t look- Don’t you have potions or something for-”

Sitting, now, Geralt dares take a few deeper breaths. Each inhale stretches his chest, but he needs the breath more than he loathes the pain. Jaskier had asked him something. Potions. He could feel the toxicity level in his blood, high enough to make his stomach churn, but he hadn’t dared take a White Honey before making it back to camp. He had been sure it was just the adrenaline and his deconcotion that kept him cognizant.

“Short bottle… pale and thick…” He grunted out and then gestured vaguely towards Roach and the bag with his potions. Jaskier hesitated to leave Geralt’s side for just a moment, then moved quickly. He returned with the entire bag, and he kneeled on the ground beside Geralt as he rummaged through the neatly arrayed bottles.

“Short bottle, pale and thick- All of these bottles are arguably short,” Jaskier said with a hint of exaggerated exasperation, until he found what he was looking for. Handing it to Geralt, Jaskier watched with open concern as he swallowed the bottle’s contents. Almost immediately, he could see the dark veins that crossed his face slowly start to fade away. Unfortunately, as the toxicity ebbed, so did the little analgesia he had had. 

“Fuck,” he managed through gritted teeth, shutting his eyes against the pain as he started to tug at his gloves. He needed to get out of his armor. He needed another bottle of Swallow. He needed-

Before he had the chance to recognize his need for it, Jaskier gave him his help. He knew the clasps and ties of his armor well by now, and he gingerly undid each, not sure what injuries hid beneath Geralt’s chest piece. Geralt threw his gloves and vambraces to the side, and as he felt Jaskier gently tug his chest plate, he reluctantly lifted his arms to allow him to pull it over his head. As it was removed, his shirt was pulled halfway off of his chest, and he heard Jaskier take a deep, sharp breath. He didn’t need to glance down to know his front was covered in a large, mottled, purple bruise, “Fucking hell, Geralt…”

“Med kit,” he said in response, redirecting Jaskier’s attention before he had the chance to say anything else, “Right hand saddle bag-”

“With the mending kit, and yes, I know the difference-” Jaskier cut him off, quickly rising to his feet and returning to Roach to fetch the supplies. As Geralt waited for him to return, he huffed carefully. With some of the pressure removed from his chest he could breathe a little easier. He glanced down at his leg once more, and with a growl of frustration he started to tug at the laces of his pants. They were yet salvageable. By the time Jaskier returned with the kit, he had pushed his waistband past the slash on his leg. It now bled freely, but sluggishly.

“I know I really don’t have to warn you that this is going to burn like hell, but I do feel like I  _ must _ ,” Jaskier said as he dropped to his knees beside Geralt, rummaging through the med kit until he came upon one of the small brown glass bottles of alcohol, “You may want to lie back for this-” 

Geralt, reluctantly, eased himself onto his elbows as Jaskier checked his wound. There weren’t any glaring contaminants, but still he rinsed the slash first using his water skin. Cringing in sympathetic pain, he uncorked the antiseptic and flinched before pouring it quickly over the wound. Geralt grit his teeth, but couldn’t suppress the pained, angry sound that left his throat. It burned like fire, scorching through the meat of his thigh.

“Okay, that’s it, that’s all, no more alcohol, just that one little splash-” Jaskier started, taking a clean cloth from the med kit and dabbing against the wound, “I’ve got your catgut and needles right here, so you can-” Jaskier stopped talking as Geralt sat up and attempted to twist as if to do the stitches himself. He hissed an expletive and fell back onto his elbows, “...you can’t stitch yourself up.”

  
  


The bard took a deep breath as he turned back to the supplies, pulling out a small curved needle and the spoil of suture from the alcohol it was stored in, “Okay, I can do it for you, no problem, just… Let me get… started…”

“Jaskier…” Geralt gritted out, “Do you even know how?”

“I mend your clothes well enough,” Jaskier muttered as he cut a length of catgut and threaded the needle, “Ladder stitch or whip stitch-”

“Jaskier.”

“Only kidding.” he said quickly, moving closer, “How does that medic’s rhyme go… red to red, white to white…”

He placed a hand on Geralt’s unbroken skin to steady himself as his needle took its first bite. This pain was more tolerable, more familiar. Geralt had been stitched up, typically by his own hand, more times than he could count. It meant the pain was soon to be over, that all he had left was to heal, “Now, after this is done, you’ll be needing the… red potion in the… round bottle, yes?”

Geralt only grunted in response. To Jaskier’s credit, his stitches were neat and evenly spaced. After he had gone for an inch, Geralt felt confident enough to tear his eyes away from his work. His breath was barely faster than normal, but any tachypnea was worrisome in a witcher. As he felt the steady pull and stretch of his wound, he forced himself to focus on something else.

Jaskier’s eyes were turned down towards his work, but Geralt could just make their striking blue out from behind his long lashes. Concentrating on his stitches, he had gone quiet for the moment and the tip of his tongue peaked out from between his lips. While he has kept a bright expression, Geralt can smell his anxiety sweat, and he both saw and felt the slight shake to his hands as he worked. They were still deft, pushing and pulling the needle carefully, checking the tension on the stitches and the security of each knot.

“Okay, almost halfway there, let me tie off this line of… skin… stitches…”

“Sutures.”

“Yes, sutures, and then I’ll keep going… Geralt, you do know you are going to have to tell me what did this, and  _ how-”  _ Jaskier continued to prattle softly now, hiding his worry beneath his chatter. For a moment, Geralt let himself watch the quick movements of his lips as his eyelids slowly descended. He could feel the press of the needle with each stitch, then the friction of the suture passing through his skin, and the gentle press of Jaskier’s hand as it slid over his leg. The pain almost felt distant now as warmth surged through him. It was practically over. Once the stitches were done up, he’d take a draught of swallow, and overnight most of his healing should be taken care of. 

That doesn’t help the sour smell of Jaskier’s concern. He can see the worry in the wrinkle between his brows and the tightness of his eyes. His hand is so close, it would take just a simple reach to cover it with his own, to reassure his traveling companion that the worst of it was over. He exhales slowly and closes his eyes against the sight. 

He was taking too much comfort in this. It was shameful that he had to have someone else stitch him up, not something to enjoy, or even appreciate. He should shun Jaskier’s soft touch, not crave it. It shouldn’t send warmth through him. He couldn’t even compare it to a whore’s attention, not when the touches from hired lovers were rarely this tender.

“Okay, one last knot… Let me make this a big one, don’t want the whole row to undo,” Jaskier said with a shaky, but still relieved sigh. He snipped the ends of the suture as he checked his work, his calloused fingertip sliding down the length of the neat row of stitches, “Salve, now, then… that potion, right?”

Geralt grunts in response, and he feels his heart sink as Jaskier’s hands pull away. They’re gone for only a moment, returning to smear the greasy, herbaceous balm over his tidy row of knots. Barely aware, he realized Jaskier had taken his hand and pushed a small round bottle into his palm. As he closed his fingers over it, Jaskier squeezed them, then uncorked the potion for him.

“There you go… forgot the name of it, but it’s the one you always drink when you’re hurt,” Jaskier said. His eyes were intent on Geralt as he knocked back the potion. With a soft grunt of distaste he dropped the empty vessel into the dirt, and focused his eyes on Jaskier once more. 

He could feel his pain ebb as his healing accelerated. It numbed him, let him take his first deep, proper breath without a sharp pang. Jaskier slowly nods, seemingly satisfied that Geralt was taken care of. He wiped his hands off in the grass, then brushed them against one another as he looked back towards the fire, “I can bring a fresh pair of trousers to you, and if you’re hungry-”

“Jaskier.” 

“Right, and I’ll need to load everything back on Roach. I know where most of this goes, so it shouldn’t be a problem- If you wanted I could start mending your pants, if you would kindly remove-”

“Jaskier.”

As the bard moved to stand, Geralt reached out and caught his wrist. Jaskier turned back to look at him curiously. With a quiet grunt of discomfort, Geralt pulled himself up to sit properly, briefly meeting Jaskier’s eyes. He had nothing to say to him. He had no argument to make. He missed the soft warmth of his hands against him, but he didn’t know how to ask for it. The desire was shameful, but it ate at him. His grip tightened on Jaskier’s wrist as his other hand moved in the familiar sign. Guilt, fresh and sinking, settled into his stomach, but the floating, fluttering relief that washed over him won out. This was so much easier.

“Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

He couldn’t watch as Jaskier went briefly still, then slowly dropped back onto his knees at his side. Jaskier’s hand landed on his shoulder softly, and he gently stroked over him with his thumb.

“You’re tense,” he said with a soft hum of concern, “Here, let me.”

He squeezed him gently, then carefully slipped behind him and placed a hand on either side of his neck. Strong fingers pressed into his skin, finding and working the knots from his tightly wound muscles as he kneaded into him. He kept to his shoulders and neck, obviously mindful not to go towards his injured but rapidly healing rib.

  
  


It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had touched him like this. He had offered this soothing touch before, when not manipulated by Axii. He would broker no argument, pushing Geralt to sit backwards in a chair, or to lay face down on a suitable flat surface. He would stand behind him and chatter pleasantly as he pushed and pressed the tension out of his body. Geralt would make a show of resisting, but when the mood to massage struck Jaskier he always seemed to end up under his hands.

Geralt listened to Jaskier’s heartbeat. It had raced like a rabbit’s from the moment he realized Geralt was hurt. It was evening out, slowing to normal as he methodically loosened Geralt’s shoulders. The sour tang of anxiety still hung over him, but there was no acrid scent of fear. There never was. There was just the orange oil and rosemary, the clove and the spearmint, the smoke of the campfire, and the dirt of the road.

He had let himself drift off, and when his vigilance returned he found himself leaning back into Jaskier’s touch, with his head hanging forward. Geralt had groaned with satisfaction, and Jaskier’s hands had stilled, briefly, as his breath caught. Geralt could hear him swallow and take a deep, slow breath. Jaskier’s heartbeat spiked, and Geralt could scent something masculine and raw in the air.

He should have sat up. He should have pushed him away.

“Let’s… get you laid down,” Jaskier said softly. Geralt felt him move back, but Jaskier’s touch lingered on his back as he eased himself down onto his bedroll, “How does your front feel?”

Geralt grunted. The pain was dulled now, the potion having had time to start knitting him back together. Now relaxed, his neck and back no longer strained to compensate for his rib. Jaskier seemed to take the grunt for what it was worth. Geralt’s eyes had slipped closed, and he could hear Jaskier moving back to his side.

“There isn’t anything more I can do for that, is there?” Jaskier said lightly. He pressed his hands against the front of his shoulders, alternating the weight and pressure he applied to either. Geralt could feel sleep pulling at him, but he fought it, blinking until his eyes focused. Above him, Jaskier smiled, his blue gaze softening as it met Geralt’s.

“Was almost worried I’d lost you there for a minute…” he lied. Though his earlier concern still lingered faintly, Geralt could more strongly detect desire. For a moment, they simply held each other’s gaze. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and Jaskier almost moved to retreat. They were close enough to share air.

Movement caught Geralt’s eyes, and he watched as Jaskier’s pink tongue quickly darted to wet his lips. It looked like an invitation. Geralt accepted it by closing the distance between them. He pressed tentatively at first and found that his lips were soft and yielding. They parted with a soft sigh, revealing the inner wetness of his mouth. His tongue slid past his lips, and Jaskier sucked eagerly against him, drawing a low groan from the witcher. Soon, Geralt was chasing his taste mindlessly, spurred on by the sweet, soft sounds Jaskier did not suppress. Jaskier’s fingernails bit into Geralt’s shoulders as Geralt reached to run his fingers through the short hairs at his nape. As Jaskier catches Geralt’s bottom lip in his teeth, Geralt hummed in satisfaction. 

As they parted, Jaskier’s breath was heavy and his pulse thrummed. The rich, masculine scent of Jaskier’s want filled every breath Geralt took, “Fuck, Jaskier-” 

“...You’re hurt,” Jaskier said quietly, “I shouldn’t be- ”

The warmth that had coiled in Geralt’s belly lurched. Jaskier didn’t meet his eyes. The hands that had rested on Geralt’s shoulders released him stutteringly as he started to pull himself away. Though his expression was regretful and almost sheepish, the flush was still high on his cheeks and his eyes were still blown dark.

“ _ Stay _ .” Geralt repeated, brokering no argument as he traced the sign in the air. His other hand had stayed at Jaskier’s neck, stroking him from nape to base. He watched with greedy, guilty eyes as his face went placid, taking the simple commands as if it were his own will, “Touch me.”

Lute-calloused fingertips brushed over the edge of Geralt’s jaw as Jaskier leaned back into his personal space. His touch trailed down over his neck as he caught him in another kiss. No less eager, Jaskier skillfully worked his tongue and lips against Geralt’s as he dragged his hand down the uninjured side of his chest. He continued down his abdomen until the heel of his hand brushed against the firm heat at the front of his smallclothes. With a soft, pleased sound he palmed against him more boldly, drawing a low, encouraging groan from Geralt.

It was wrong. All of it was tainted.He had made this happen. He was stealing this intimacy. He moved to break the kiss, to end this, but Jaskier followed him forward with a quiet, protesting hum. He had begun to stroke him through the thin fabric and he reached with his other hand to tug at his laces. The knots came away easily and Jaskier’s hand slid up, over and past his waistband. His fingertips first trailed through the thatch of hair at his base, then traced down the length of him. Jaskier’s palm was soft as he curled his hand around him. He stroked down him once, twice, then pressed his thumb against the slit in his head, smearing the small droplet that came forth. 

Geralt groaned low for him, the urge to resist and undo leaving him as he felt Jaskier push against his sensitive, swollen crown. With a self-satisfied hum, Jaskier let their lips part so that he could take a few quick, heavy breaths. Bright blue eyes sought Geralt’s, then slid down his body towards where he held him in his own hand.

“Jaskier-”

“Let me,” he urged softly while he gently squeezed along his shaft. His grip was loose enough to glide over him easily, but tightened to catch on his flare’s edge with each upward stroke, “Just...let me.”

Geralt hissed a soft profanity as he continued to work over him, twisting his wrist and setting a pace that was just beyond teasing. It was mostly quiet between them. The silence was only broken by their heavy breaths and Geralt’s soft gasps and groans of pleasure. Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off Jaskier’s skilled hand stroking over him. He had spent jealous nights listening to the sort of pleasure he knew the bard brought his lovers. 

“That’s it,” Jaskier murmured after another low groan from the witcher, his lips catching the edge of his jaw. His face pressed in close to his neck, and he hummed in self-satisfaction as he heard Geralt’s breath hitch, “Let yourself have this…”

“Fuck, Jaskier-”

“Just let me take care of you,” Jaskier urged in soft response. He inhaled deeply against his pulse, and as Geralt’s head tipped back, he pressed soft kisses against his throat. Geralt’s thighs tensed, applying fresh tension to his stitched wound and drawing a mixed sigh of pleasure and pain. His hips minutely pushed forward opposite the motion of Jaskier’s hand as his naturally slower breathing pitched up to something approaching human. All teasing was gone from his touch, replaced with purposeful pulls and targeted pressure. The fluid that beaded at his tip was spread over his head as Jaskier’s fist focused on the sensitive crown.

Geralt‘s voice sank into a wordless sigh as he reached pleasure. It spilled down Jaskier’s hand and onto his own shirt as Jaskier milked him until he had nothing left to give. For a moment, the two sat in relative silence as Geralt’s breathing quickly slowed once more. Jaskier pulled away from Geralt’s neck and focused his eyes on the mess he had just helped create. Slowly, he released Geralt’s shaft, and with a curious glint in his eye cut his gaze to meet Geralt’s. While his grin looked almost smug, he himself looked affected. Flush was high on his cheeks, and his eyes were darkly dilated. Geralt could smell his own pleasure but behind that was the strictly human, strictly Jaskier, tang of arousal.

“Forget-” Geralt said quickly, rushing the sign for one final cast. Jaskier looked at him curiously as his first attempt failed. 

“Forget what?” He asked with a tilt to his head, lifting his hand to his mouth with a coy smile. Geralt watched in dumb silence as the bard’s tongue slid over the drops of pleasure on his hand. He felt himself twitch in renewed interest, but his will was stronger now that he had been once sated.

“All of it,” he clarified as Jaskier wiped the remaining seed onto the grass, “Forget tonight.”

His second attempt was cleaner, more precise, and he could see the amusement and satisfaction fall from Jaskier’s face as Axii took hold.

“Forget this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and let it be known that we both thrive on feed back. Thanks for your time! Also, if you noticed anything that we should/could have tagged but didn't, please let us know!


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